


Blooming Between Breaths

by Eyrdamun



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-15 09:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9229067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyrdamun/pseuds/Eyrdamun
Summary: There had been vines rooted in the name by Fushimi's side. They wrapped around his vertebrae all the way to his throat, sprouting flowers and leaves that choked him - and he had burned them. But sometimes, ecosystems are born anew from their ashes.They only need the right conditions to be met, that's all.





	1. Chapter 1

He recalled getting carried away by the smell of burnt flesh and trash in the alleyway. Seeing himself finally reflected in those brown eyes had intoxicated him, but it was the way the confrontation had gone that pushed him off the edge.

Fushimi remembered the muscles in his face stretching in a manic excuse for a grin as he whispered those words.

Misaki's hand let go of the neck of his shirt, and he stepped back and flinched as if something had jabbed into his left rib.

Throughout it all, Misaki's eyes had never left his, and Fushimi thought he had finally found what he had been looking for- even if his body felt suddenly a bit more lonely as the echoes of Misaki’s rage and pain abruptly stopped.

It felt like a whole new betrayal, knowing how Misaki should have been able to tell what he was feeling- even if he did his best to lock it all up and not let anything seep through-

His father had always been able to tell what that woman had been feeling even when she boarded up, when her heart became a prison made of stone and ice. Misaki should have felt even one of the faintest tugs at his heart from Fushimi's own.

The knowledge now left him bitter- Misaki was used to feeling too much. He should have known that the subtlest of emotions would go unperceived by him.  


* * *

 

  
Yata's apartment was too small but it felt homely as Fushimi leaned against the wall watching him prepare their meal. The light of the bulb that illuminated them felt warmer than even sunlight on his skin, as if it had taken the burden of their broken bond to shower them in the warm comfort of each other’s presence. It kept on radiating a soft glow that accompanied Yata’s out of tune humming all too well as he rhythmically cut something- Fushimi hadn’t bothered to turn any of his attention to what was being cooked- on the board.

Yata swayed from foot to foot as he hit a particularly off-key note, the apron’s knot moving lazily in the movement’s wake and Fushimi felt a particularly strong desire to take a hold of one of the fabric strips. Maybe even to pull on it, to lightly bother Yata in a way that would make him huff in fond exasperation before tying the knot back again.

Though, maybe Yata wouldn’t react like that. And, maybe, that was just in his head, and Fushimi was just imagining things out of his own contentment. His reverie was broken by Yata turning as he roughly took off the apron with a half grin on his face.

"You didn't even complain when I added the vegetables."

Shifting his eyes from the man in front of him to the pot, he noticed the greens boiling in it. He clicked his tongue and turned his attention back to Yata.

"You would have added them anyway, " he mumbled.

"And you better eat at least half of them anyway." Fushimi's lip twitched upwards before he allowed himself to let the smile form.

"We'll see."

If it weren't for the fact that he could no longer feel the waves of Yata's strongest emotions, he would have been sure that he had made a mistake and had failed on that day a lifetime ago when he attempted to break their connection.

However, basking under the light in such a cozy setting, made Fushimi suspicious of Yata’s attire. He wore a long sleeved shirt and jogging pants, sometimes even shuffling as if he were cold. When Fushimi had asked about it, Yata only shrugged and replied that it was because he didn't have the aura to keep him warm anymore.

"I'm not used to my real body temperature now, " he had joked.

Fushimi didn't think much of that reply- even if Yata had used lighter clothes in the dying summer weather back when they were in middle school, he probably got used to being even warmer after joining HOMRA.

Shrugging away those thoughts, Fushimi folded his arms over his shirt, his own fingers trailing over where Yata's name laid neatly and all too easily recognizable on his ribs.  


* * *

  
Sometimes Yata would look at him as if he wanted to reach out, with a rueful smile that Fushimi thought didn't fit in with his features at all. And every time without fail, Yata's smile would become a bit more forced when he realized he had been caught staring, only for him to then lean back and look somewhere else.

There was no longer an echo of his friend’s feelings vibrating in the cage of his bones for him to analyze his actions with. Fushimi didn't know what to do with the information he was seeing all by itself, so he did nothing.

It was in times such as these that he thought that he was the idiot that needed thorough and clear explanations, but it wasn’t like he would admit it to Yata anyway.  


* * *

  
They decided to go to the hot springs for fun- a well deserved vacation, Yata had said.  
  
Fushimi usually fainted after he was in the water for more than ten minutes, so he didn’t know what possessed him to agree.In the end though, he wound up being surprised in the changing rooms- enough that his legs almost all their strength and he slumped onto the lockers before he even managed to finish unbuttoning his shirt.

His shoulder bumped loudly against the closed locker door. The noise startled Yata, and he immediately came to his side- close but never touching- and Fushimi sank his teeth onto his lower lips as he felt his throat contract.

“Saru?“

Yata’s hand reached out to Fushimi’s upper body, brushing gently, and the touch slowly grew in pressure until his palm rested comfortably against Fushimi’s bicep. He leaned onto the warm touch as he let go of the lip caged between his teeth, his own hand raising only to falter and fall by his side again.

He didn’t know what he had expected.

The patch of skin that had contained his name once on Yata’s third left rib stared mockingly at him, small scars that no one would have noticed had they not be staring as hard as Fushimi had been seeming more like sneering smiles at his expense.

In the end, his name had bled out and had left nothing than a marred texture behind.

“Do you want to go home?“

He could barely find it in himself to pay attention to what Yata was saying- Yata’s own name suddenly burning too prominently on his own rib at the revelation that its supposed twin was missing. It happened so rarely, or so Fushimi had heard, that he had forgotten what happened when the person carrying one’s name felt there was no possible way to remain in each other’s world.

“No, I just...“ Fushimi pushed himself off the locker, the hand on his arm sliding down and off of it, leaving an intriguing warmth in its wake. Under any other situation, he might have even sought it out, but now-

“Lost my footing.“ It was another taunting reminder. “Stop mothering me, Misaki- or are you really trying that hard to live up to your name?“

Yata smacked him on the arm, grumbling about how he’ll keep an eye on him anyway, thank you very much, and returned to his own locker to finish taking his clothes off.

Fushimi brought his own hands to the remaining buttons of his shirt, his fingers slow to start the task. He only managed to open three more before Yata, whose shirt was back on, stopped Fushimi again by placing a hand on his shoulder.

“You seriously look pale. Let’s just come another day, alright?”

He didn’t get a say before Yata turned to gather his remaining belongings from the locker.  


* * *

  
“Saru, what’s wrong?“

He ignored the question and kept drumming his fingers on the table as he browsed through his PDA.

“Seriously?“ He could imagine how Yata’s brows would furrow. “Didn’t we talk about, y’know, telling ea-“

“So when were you going to tell me about being cold?“ Fushimi scoffed and spoke in a mumble that, of course, Yata’s keen ears picked up on.

It had been enough to Yata’s lecture to falter, his eyes wide and lips slightly parted as he tried to regain his composure. His mouth closed and open, and Fushimi could just hear the question forming on the tip of his tongue.

It pissed him off, so he spoke louder this time.

“My name isn’t there.“

Somehow that statement threw Yata off even more. Fushimi had expected it to have been enough explanation, but Yata looked down with a deepening frown. The picture perfect image of befuddlement. He should’ve guessed this would happen. After all, even when Yata could’ve felt his emotions, he still wouldn’t have understood.

“Well...“ He was still struggling to come up with the words. “Yeah... Isn’t it normal?“  
  
He took a pause and bit the inside of his cheek before rubbing the back of his neck as he continued. “ Isn’t mine repl--“ Yata took in a sharp breath, cutting himself off to not say the word. “- gone too?“

Fushimi traced the name written on his skin subtly as he folded his arms.

“What do you think?“

Yata met his eyes.“That it is.“

A sudden wave of emotion, all painful, passed through Fushimi and he looked away. Softly, a part of him supplied that Yata was probably feeling the same way, that he had been shouldering that weight for years. He was spared though, as his phone began to buzz- a call from work coming in- and he moved to pick it up.

He hesitated for a moment before swiping to receive the call, stuck crouching against the table, before straightening after Yata nodded him away. Bringing the phone to his ear as he walked towards the door, he paused momentarily in front of the entrance to turn his head to the side, looking back to Yata one last time.

Fushimi wasn’t listening to what the voice drawled on over the receiver. Instead, he was swallowing thickly as something akin to guilt pooled in his gut as he stared at Yata’s slumped shoulders and curved back.

“It isn’t,“ he admitted barely loud enough to be heard.

There was confusion over the line - “Fushimi-san?“- and the sound of Yata bumping his knee against the table in his haste to stand up. But he was already turning the doorknob and stepping outside as wide brown eyes bored into him.  


* * *

  
There was no denying Fushimi was a proud man. The fear of rejection would combine with that affliction to bring him to an impasse when confronted with emotional situations. But the way Yata had spoken, all of his emotions crystal clear in his voice- it had to mean something.

He hadn’t been sure what, though. Feelings were still too complicated for him to fully grasp or began to make heads or tails of them. They were akin to a message void of words and composed only of colourful blurry shapes. And just like those images, Yata would soften at the edges yet still retain his robustness as he laid out his heart for all to see.

That thought process flustered Fushimi. He didn’t know what to make of what he saw, but he had to try something. Especially since he no longer had the ghost of Yata’s heart beating against his own to guide him.  


* * *

  
“What do you mean it’s still there?“

“Just that.“

“But why? You le-“

“I don’t know.“

“You should have been able to move on.“

“Hn.“

The sound of typing filled the room while Yata stared at him, and then looked down to the floor. He had only barely given Fushimi the time to set up his laptop on the small table after he returned from work before bombarding him with questions. He didn’t appear guilty at all over it.

“You didn’t want ... to.“

He sounded unsure and tentative, but when Fushimi’s eyes flickered towards the other, he found his jaw purposely set. Yata shuffled closer and placed a hand on the middle of his back, the touch firm from the get-go. Like sunshine, body heat seeped in, and the name on his rib was a sunflower basking in the contact. The ray florets spread long and wide to tickle under his skin, making Fushimi’s instincts attempt to lull him into leaning back and into Yata. Though, above that tempting thought, the sound of the older man’s sharp inspiration reached his ears. As if the noise had been a pained howl, he tensed.

“I’ll power through,“ Yata gritted out as if those words could bring any sort of comfort.  
Without a second to spare, Fushimi pulled away.

“No, we won’t...“ he started while the sliver of a complaint from the parting half-formed and dissolved in the back of his mind. He was certain that he now choked on petals and that the flower was uprooted and fell- disc floret heavy in the pit of his stomach like the dead weight of guilt. “Not like that, we won’t do that.“

Yata’s eyes narrowed as he seemed to search for something in his words. He didn’t find what he was looking for but still nodded and scooted away.  


* * *

  
Lying down in bed, Fushimi knew why he felt a light nausea whenever he thought about his name returning to its original place on Yata’s skin. It was a sickness that would plague him whenever he trailed a digit over the name on his own skin. Because if it were to return, after they both did their best to nurture the withered remains of their bond, the characters wouldn’t match anymore. Yata’s skin had thin pale marks clawing towards his heart- a texture that shouldn’t be and shouldn’t have been.

 _They won’t match anymore_ , he thought as he slipped his hand under his shirt to caress the long memorized patch of skin. The pads of his fingers never once trailed away from the characters on his skin, and if they were to ever leave it, it was only to circle it slowly. He caressed it one last time- passing the base of his distal phalanx up to its nails over the name.

His motions halted.

It wouldn’t be too hard to match with Yata again.

Fushimi pulled away to accommodate the hand under his shirt and came back with all five of his nails enclosing the name. Steadily, they pressed on, and soon he and Yata would be-  
Yata.

Fushimi stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening and tongue clicking as he removed his hand from under the fabric. Sighing, he let it flop onto the bed and closed his eyes.

He... had to try. To try to deal with things in a more normal way. Fushimi huffed as he thought of the repercussions his previous actions would have had if they had been seen through to the end. Yata wouldn’t have thought of it for what he had meant it as- a sign of solidarity, of companionship.

He would probably clench his jaw, Fushimi mused, all the while trying to hold back tears and gently nurse the scratches so they wouldn’t leave a scar.

Fushimi would have liked to say that he would have done the same had he known of the cuts erasing his own name. He would have liked to say he would have stood besides Yata, a washcloth in hand, and patched him up.

But he wouldn’t have.

He would have thought of it as a more solid link than what they previously had. A more cold physical reminder of a lost mate, a hurt that would run so deep and perhaps might never heal no matter the passing of time. Through the pang in his chest, Fushimi would have seen it as a more tangible way for Yata to never forget him.

And lying in bed, with that thought overpowering anything else, he cringed. The faults of his past actions were still too fresh in his mind- and in Yata’s, he was certain- for him to have been able to find any sort of self deprecating humour in his past self. So, he turned on his side and curled in on himself. It was perhaps better this way, with Yata’s textured patch of skin versus his virgin flesh.

After all, Fushimi could just see it as a texture mirroring the salvaged remains of their original bond.

Face pressed against the mattress, Fushimi’s features relaxed. Yata would probably think of it that way, he was sure, and it was a more positive outlook than Fushimi himself would have attributed to it if left to his own devices. Besides, they both had their scars, and it wasn’t the only one that he had left on the other; he’d learn to live with them just like he’d learn to live with that particular one.  


* * *

  
They met up for lunch at a small restaurant near Fushimi’s workplace. Yata spoke enthusiastically about his morning shift, sometimes only pausing long enough for Fushimi to interject with a few worded replies before picking up the conversation again.

However, Fushimi did notice the way Yata’s eyes would glaze over whenever his name was said.

“Is something wrong?“ He was playing around with his food now, and the older would definitely chide him about it if he noticed. But Yata only hummed out a confused noise with his mouth stuffed.

Fushimi sighed and then voiced the thought that had been unsettling him for a while. “I mean, with the way I say your name. Does it bother you?“

The other swallowed and took a sip from his soda.

“I...“ He stopped for a second before giving Fushimi an awkward half smile. He put down his glass and rubbed the back of his neck as his cheeks reddened. “I guess that yeah?“

Fushimi looked down to his plate, pushing the food in it more roughly than before. Suddenly, he felt a tiny pressure on his throat that almost cut off his breath and drowned out the noise all around him. He was snapped out of it when Yata’s fingers grasped his wrist- he was half leaning over the table and frowning with concern.

“Let me finish, will ya?“

Not allowing enough time for Fushimi to register the contact properly, he squeezed and let go to sit back down. Blushing again, he surveyed their surroundings to ensure that he didn’t bring an unwanted audience.

“I meant that it’s weird when you call me by my family name, jerk.“

Fushimi’s eyes widened imperceptibly and the corners of his lips curled upward. Abruptly, he felt weightless, and his back straightened.

“Oh, then please do forgive me, Misaki.“

“I’ll think about it.“

Misaki’s smile was teasing and blinding, planting a desire deep within Fushimi’s lungs that attempted to claw its way out and to manifest. Instead, he reached for Misaki’s glass and drank from it, hoping that it would satiate it even if momentarily.  


* * *

  
The name on Fushimi’s side belonged to his soulmate, and he knew that type of connection could prove to be fleeting and cheap. He recalled well his actions, as well as those of his parents, to prove it. It was only recently that he had begun to learn to give it the meaning so that it would last, so that they could last.

Because even without their connection showing on Misaki’s skin anymore, and even without their feelings echoing as soothing whispers in each other’s heart, they were both willing to try-  
  
Misaki was, after all, a loyal idealist and would only abide to the positive connotations of being a soulmate.  


* * *

  
The next morning, the Captain called him to his office. He was on the floor building a puzzle of a solid and clear blue colour with no images nor textures to help distinguish the pieces from each other. No one ever understood how Munakata managed to have the discipline to spend so many hours of his day with something like that, but Scepter 4 had collectively agreed that it was probably for the best. He motioned to a spot on the floor in front of him, but Fushimi stood still by the door.

The captain chuckled and told him to take the day off for his upcoming birthday- a gift of sorts that Fushimi would be unable to refuse.

”No mandatory office party?” He spoke with mock hurt, hand ghosting over the knob.

”Oh, that’s the following day.”

Silence fell over them as Fushimi froze in front of the door.

”The ex-Red King and I concluded that this would be the best way to maximize your enjoyment of your birthday.”

Fushimi’s eyes flickered to the side as he tried to unveil the implicit message behind those words. Shrugging, he waited for his boss to wave him away.  


* * *

  
On November 7th, he slept in and lazed around in bed until early afternoon.

When he finally left his dorm room, he didn’t bother changing out of his sleeping sweater before going to see Misaki. They weren’t going to do much more than stay in at his place anyway.

Besides, Misaki had once let it slip that he preferred when Fushimi was dressed as if he were in his own home, and, if he were an honest man, Fushimi would admit that he liked it, and all of its implications, best too.

But he still had a long way to go before he could say those words aloud.  


* * *

  
They had leaned into each other by instinct, their mouths meeting gently, and the contact made them gasp. A pleasant heat bloomed on Fushimi 's marked side. He had traced and memorized every nook and cranny of the name to the point where he knew that the first pang of warmth took root on the first character of Misaki's name to then propagate to the rest. Like vines, the feeling snaked into his flesh and snared his lungs.

Misaki had stolen his breath and he was more than glad to surrender it. A small price to pay, reasoned the only section of his brain that hadn’t shut off and surrendered itself to the sensation, especially for something he had longed for for so long. His body thought differently though, and the vines tightened their hold on his lung so that Fushimi would pull back . And he did slowly, eyelids lazily opening- when he had closed them, he didn't know- and forgetting the vibrant green of healthy leaves in order to catch Misaki's teary stare.

Having the air knocked out of his lungs was not pleasant this time- the leftover blossoms of warmth withered and took away the stems holding his organs in place. And all too suddenly, he saw Misaki's jaw tense as he hissed out air from between his slightly bared teeth. He wasn't sure how that action caused Fushimi to trail his eyes down Misaki's neck to his right arm and down to the hand clenched around the counter's border.

He stepped away when it finally dawned on him.

"Are you-"

"I'm fine." His tone made it more than clear that he was still recuperating from the sudden burn. The smile forcing its way on Misaki’s face could only be described as a grimace. "Seriously, don't worry."

Fushimi didn’t want to, but he did anyway.  


* * *

  
At his working desk in Scepter 4, Fushimi’s eyes glazed over the screen, lost in thought.  
During the anniversary of Totsuka’s death all the way up to Mikoto’s, Misaki mentioned, quietly and all too calmly for what was expected of him, that he would look out the window late at night. As if his sadness were the sea, Misaki had become the shush of the waves, all blue and chipping away at the borders like waves swaying against rocks. The loss of ebullience was more than evident even in his usually chaotic texts, and it unsettled Fushimi.

He had never learned to lend a shoulder to someone in mourning- never even learned how to prepare soup for someone when they were sick- so he figured keeping some distance would be for the best. A selfish decision, he knew, but was too afraid to say the wrong thing and lose what little affection between them that had somehow survived the flames.

“Quite the trying few days, am I correct?“ Munakata spoke with gravity. The unexpected question snapped Fushimi out of his musings to replace them with confusion.

Work had been quite laid-back for the past week.

The Captain didn’t wait for a reply- most likely having read what he meant to say off his expression- and forged on as if there had been no break between his words. “It would be good to ensure that everyone is getting fulfilling rest.“

_Ah._

Now that he listened, Fushimi noted, this was the tone he reserved only for issues revolving around the late Red King. The thinly veiled meaning behind the advice clicked in his brain, causing his brows to furrow.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed, Captain, but that’s not something I can easily guarantee.“ It had come out a bit more bitter and wistful than he intended; in fact, he had intended it to sound like nothing at all out of old habit.

A deep chuckle responded to his statement. The Captain, joining his hands behind his back, tilted his head to back almost imperceptibly with a small rueful smile dancing on his lips. In that instance, Fushimi noticed that there were bags under Munakata’s eyes camouflaged too well in all the blue and purple the once king wore.

He was about to speak but, again, he was beaten to it.

“Sometimes, merely being there is enough to accomplish such a task.“

The Captain turned on his heels and walked towards the door. His pace was slow and heavier than usual yet still somehow he retained his natural poise.

“Captain.“

He halted, rotating his upper body just enough to be able to see his employee’s face. All those movements were painted in the lethargy of a man with all the time in the world and none of it all at once. It made Fushimi click his tongue and give his superior a pointed stare, more than aware that it would carry everything he wanted to phrase.

It did- the Captain’s features slacked in mild amusement- and he began to walk away again.

“Fear not, Fushimi-kun. Awashima-kun has it more than covered,“ Munakata said with the confidence of a man whose words conveyed over oceans. He regained energy, his strides growing longer and swifter as the distance between them grew. However, at the door, he stilled one last time.

“In fact, I had just escaped one of her mandatory nap and red bean tasting breaks.“

And with that, he strode away and left Fushimi to his own devices.  


* * *

  
That very same night, he sat beside Misaki as they talked about nothing.

The silhouettes of the buildings forming the cityscape were like teeth sinking into the sky and biting into the stars behind the veil of the light pollution in order to shine brighter than the night. There was one particular building hidden and only partially visible from the narrow alleyway facing them, one at which Misaki pointed fondly, that looked like a pocket of stars due to the distance.

He had on a subdued smile that seemed more melancholic in the artificial light trickling in through the window, and it tempted Fushimi to extend and lay a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

Instead, his fingers curled and his hand turned to a fist to keep himself grounded, to not reach out- the only viable option he had to soothe Misaki’s ails was just to stand back. After all, his close presence was the most bittersweet of comforts he could provide.  


* * *

  
Misaki didn’t ask for more support out of Fushimi.

He had been glad for it until a tiny yet persuasive voice in the back of his head pointed out that it was probably because Misaki knew he had nothing more to offer. That thought made him click his tongue.

This wasn’t how he wanted things to be, but he had no idea what to do to change them. He tried to look up tips online- all ranging from awkward suggestions and acts that weren’t concrete enough- for nought. Without his noticing, Misaki’s grief had disappeared with the days and there was nothing left for him to do.

It had been a small yet bitter relief how the redhead went back to his usual sunny self. A sunny self whose singing was terrible and, at the same time, oddly mesmerizing.  


* * *

  
In those moments where they sat side by side, both minding their own business yet in the company of each other, Fushimi would forget about soulmates, their connections, and their marks. The room would fill with warmth under the flow of the artificial yellowish light of the lamps or by the sunlight, and his heart would feel as if it were made of foliage- basking and ever nurtured.

Wallowing in those sensations, Fushimi found out that he was more romantic than he had believed. Lazily, his body would lose all tension and unwind, his ribs expanding more than he ever imagined they could and drawing in deeper, slower breaths.

In those times when names lost all significance, the distance between them would feel nonexistent.

He had asked Misaki if he had ever felt like that, as if things were perfect with their mundaneness. At the question, he had looked up lost in thought and let out a deep hum. In any other situation, Fushimi would have teased him but, at that instant, he relaxed in the other’s presence.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.“

Fushimi turned his head to its side lazily, eyes half lidded in the lethargy of the moment. Misaki mirrored his movements, but his eyes were serious. It contrasted too much with the sheepish smile on his lips, yet fit harmoniously. All his feelings were always on displayed like an open book for anyone curious enough to glance. And right now, they were only for Fushimi to see. Somehow, that knowledge tickled his insides as if it were breeze softly blowing through the leaves in his skin.

“It mainly happens when I’m with you.“

Even Misaki’s whispers carried a punch of emotion powerful enough to disrupt anyone’s respiration, and the space between them melted away until they could feel each other’s breath fanning on their lips. They stopped there, just staring into one another’s eyes in silence, and Fushimi licked his lips. As if to reward him for the proximity, Misaki’s exhale left the cold phantom of a caress on them.

_Me too._

His voice died in his throat in a soft sigh, and the creases at the corner of Misaki’s eyes from his gentle smile told him that it was fine.  


* * *

  
The second time Fushimi saw Misaki shirtless after he left HOMRA was when he had stayed the night and Misaki had to change to go to work.

He had been lying in the bed as the older man took off his shirt, trying not to look but failing, and smiling softly to himself as Misaki shook his head once it had been freed from the neck of his shirt. His eyes didn’t take long to betray him as they immediately trailed down the toned back of his friend, and he swore he did all he could to avoid the blank spot on his third rib.

But he knew that was a poor excuse for a lie.

He didn’t get to think much about it because, in that supposedly empty patch of skin, the scrawl of black ink claimed ownership.

Fushimi sat up fast, startling Misaki.

“Wh-“

“Who is--“

Their eyes met and Fushimi decided to hold his words back. His back slouched, and he was looked at in utmost confusion. And Misaki reached out to him, but he scooted back. There was a bitter taste left on his tongue that he couldn’t swallow down. With all that had happened, he knew he was being unreasonable.

“Saru... It’s really not what you’re imagining.“

He wanted to ask how it could not be, his stare turning to a glare on the sloppily written characters on Misa-

Surprised, Fushimi snapped his head up to gape at Misaki.

“Did you write my name?“

He blushed and stammered before steeling himself and schooling his expression as if he were marching into a battle.

“You were upset last time, right?“

Fushimi fell back into bed, covering his face with the pillow, and let out what he hoped was an unnoticeable grunt. Embarrassment over his reaction made blood rush to his face, and he knew, he definitely knew, with the way Misaki laughed- and he could imagine him throwing his head back with his teeth, throat, and joy bared- that his shame had been seen clearly.  


* * *

  
Their palms would sometimes brush nowadays.

Misaki would seek the contact out. He said that it felt right. Fushimi didn’t point out how he hadn’t said it felt good.  


* * *

  
On one of the first few days of February, Fushimi accepted an invitation to sleep over at Misaki‘s. They had bantered as usual, playing video games and flicking water on each other whenever they would wash their hands. And when they went to sleep, Fushimi on the bed with Misaki on a futon on the floor, everything had been normal too.

What wasn’t like the other times was Fushimi waking up at three in the morning with the need to get a drink. Lying on his side facing the wall, he debated whether or not to get up and quench his thirst, but the enveloping scent of Misaki kept him glued to the mattress. So he came to the obvious decision of just sleeping through and closed his eyes as the second unusual occurrence transpired.

From the floor behind him, he heard a shuddering exhale followed by the whispers of fabric moving and a wet inhale. The dryness in his throat amplified when he realized the noise had been- was- sniffing, and his brain began simulating a hundred scenarios on how to deal with Misaki’s silent crying.

In some, he got off the bed to lie by Misaki’s side- close enough so that the small amount of heat on the surface of his flesh would radiate and warm him up. In others, he would simply call his name, and his own would be echoed back. Then, they would turn to gaze into each other’s eyes and Misaki would give him a teary smile. Or they would just go sit by the window again and talk about anything that crossed their minds.

Building up all his courage, he turned. The noise of his movements silenced the other and they both froze in anticipation. But Misaki didn’t wait long. Fushimi heard him stand up and saw him enter the bathroom from the corner of his eyes, leaving behind the ghost of his tears on his path.

On that night, as he lay on his back, it had become obvious that Fushimi had been deeply mistaken about the other man’s grief. He had momentarily yearned for their old bond back so that he would know its depth, to understand how he could begin to help, but... he knew it wouldn’t have spurred him to surpass his own hesitation in time. Burying his head deep into the pillow, he let out the core of his regret with a quiet sigh.

Had it been the other way around, Misaki would have checked on him in a heartbeat, and he had never envied that lack of hesitation any more than what he did in that instance.

From the bathroom, he was convinced he heard another sniff.  


* * *

  
On the evening of February 14th, Fushimi’s foot beat rapidly against the floor as he waited for Misaki to open the door to his apartment. He was jittery and, for once, didn’t feel the usual soft petals tickling his insides as he tended to feel whenever his oldest friend was around. This time, the fluttering wings of butterflies attracted by pollen were brushing against the walls of his stomach and against the thin lines composing the name on his third rib. He was slowly becoming an ecosystem where Misaki was involved. He clicked his tongue with no particular annoyance at the thought.

He was only mildly embarrassed by the effect at this point.

Quickly checking his phone for any new notifications- maybe Misaki had texted him about being held up?- Fushimi rolled his eyes at the messages he found. There weren’t many. In fact, there were only three from Hidaka and Andy encouraging him on his date and planting even more ludicrously romantic ideas for what could unfold. He couldn’t understand how they had managed to spew, and keep on spewing throughout the day, embarrassing suggestions to do that night.

_Well, it’s not like I can touch him anyway._

Or at the very least, he’d rather not. He sighed as he pocketed his phone and then knocked again. Misaki didn’t usually take this long to answer, and there was noise coming from the apartment.

When his knuckles rapped against the wood of the door a second time, Fushimi heard a clang and something sounding akin to unintelligible swearing before the door was ripped open.

“Dude, I told you to wait.“ Misaki‘s nose flared as he puffed out air from his nostrils. He didn’t look particularly mad though, and with his hair in disarray, he looked like he had been rushing to take care of something. His expression softened, and he moved aside to let Fushimi in, pushing the door open wider with his upper body before stepping back into his apartment.

“You can’t say anything about the mess, by the way!“ he called out as he headed towards where Fushimi remembered the kitchen to be.

It made one of the younger man’s eyebrows rise, but he didn’t waste any time before entering his friend’s place. He softly nudged the door closed with his foot and lazily locked it before removing his shoes. All the while, he heard water flowing from the kitchen sink and pans clattering.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, alerting him of a new message from Hidaka with an even newer disgustingly lovey-dovey idea to spend Valentine’s day.

_Oh._

It was like a summer breeze just rolled in his core and it made the flowers rooted under his flesh sway in gentle circular motions to brush against his skin, butterflies indulging the motion by following it closely.

The date, and the fact that they were clearly trying to be something reminded him of the one thing that could happen, that he would allow to happen since it wouldn't risk harming Misaki. And Misaki had always been the first one to make any steps between them, to reach out, so it made sense for him to have made chocolates on Valentine’s.

Following the sound, he found the kitchen to be cleaner than he expected considering the warnings given. It had only been Misaki’s loud nature amplifying the noise and turning it into a cacophony. Or maybe he was being overdramatic due to his own nature and lack of kitchen experience, he didn’t care enough to tell. Once inside the kitchen, though, the noise seemed to have attenuated and reverted back to its usual homely melody. He leaned against the wall and let his eyes wonder around the “mess“.

And on the counter, he found homemade chocolates.

Fushimi blinked rapidly in surprise, somehow taken aback by his expectations being met, and cleared his throat to catch Misaki’s attention. He had only barely glanced above his shoulder, and Fushimi just pointed at the desserts. Misaki blushed- and another expectation Fushimi had that he hadn’t even been aware of was met- and shimmied a bit on the spot before bringing up a hand, motioning to rub the back of his neck awkwardly. He stopped once the water dripped down his fingers onto his shirt and huffed.

“Yeah, those- those are for you.“ The ‘eat some‘ was implied and Fushimi pushed himself of the wall to help himself.

They were all bite-sized pieces in different shapes and decorated with different colours, some decorated with a poor drawing of a knife, or a blade, or flowers, and he couldn’t help but wonder vaguely if Misaki knew. Even the more failed attempts looked edible and Fushimi popped a red dotted one into his mouth. Only to immediately regret it.

“Is that spice?!”

His hand flew immediately up to his mouth, and Misaki laughed at him while bringing a napkin to his lips so that he could spit it out.

“Here, pfft, let me-“ he managed to say between laughs. His voice became tender when he picked up the sentence where he left off. “Let me help you.“ Misaki’s fingers took hold of his jaw and angled his face down so that he could clean up more easily. Even though his eyes were looking up towards Fushimi, his eyelids were downcast as he examined his mouth.

“If it burns, you don’t have to bother,“ Fushimi mumbled.

“Ah?“ Misaki’s eyes shifted to look into his own pair. “Don’t worry. It’s nowhere near the level  
that you’re probably at,“ he chuckled.

Fushimi wrestled his head away and Misaki frowned, averting his gaze to the napkin before turning to the trash and throwing it away.

“It’s really not as bad as you think.“

Misaki wasn’t looking at him, and he probably was right since he was used to the red aura anyway, but he didn’t care much about that at the moment. This wasn’t how he expected things to turn out.

“Why did you make spicy chocolates?“

When Misaki faced him, it was with a grin as if he remembered a great story and he approached him like he were about to tell it. His grin widened for a fraction of a second before it lost some of its joy, as if the words that were traveling their way up his throat had zapped it away.

“Totsuka-san showed me that recipe.“ His smile turned thin at the corners but still kept some happiness. “The first batch was awful, though we both got the hang of it by the fourth!“ Misaki had puffed his chest in pride, and it was Fushimi’s turn to huff.

“More like you destroyed your taste buds into deluding yourselves...“

“Hey! Everyone in HOMRA agrees!” Misaki crossed his arms with a light pout. It was cute, and Fushimi looked down to the small chocolates before taking one with a blue five petal flower painted on it. He savoured it, this one thankfully barren from any hot flavours, and swallowed it so that it would join the rest of the plants in him.

Cocking an eyebrow at him, Fushimi allowed himself to be curious. “So why did you make them?“

He almost regretted asking that question with the look that Misaki had shot him, as if the reason were the most obvious in the world.

“It’s his birthday and it’s Valentine’s so...“ He let his sentence die and shrugged. “Figured it would be a nice gesture.“

The mood that hung in the air between them was gradually losing the warmth it had previously radiated, and Fushimi was left staring at Misaki and his wry smile. He was all too sharply reminded of the sound of muted shuffling and of the bathroom door shutting over muffled sniffing, and of a building between an alley that resembled a night sky from the vantage point at Misaki’s window.

“Misaki?“

“I’m fine, don’t worry.“ He tried to wave him off. And usually, Fushimi would’ve allowed it, but he just stepped closer this time. Standing a foot away from the other, he refrained from clicking his tongue. Instead, he folded his arms on his chest and traced his soulmate’s name above the fabric.

“Honest?“ Feeling the fabric on top of the smooth expanse of skin where the characters laid boosted his courage.

For a second, Misaki looked confused and then hesitant as if he were fighting with himself.

“I just don’t want to think about it.“ He walked to the television and started typing something on the laptop connected to it. “Anyway, want to watch a movie? Which one do you want? Bandou gave me a list of...”

Misaki’s voice droned out around him, and part of Fushimi wanted to let it go and be swayed into the comforting warmth that would await him in the spot beside the other on the bed. And it was only in front of the spot on the mattress that had become ‘his’ that he managed to halt.

“But you still do, right?“ he muttered, and Misaki faltered in his chattering and went quiet.

“Saruhiko.“

“It’s...“ Fushimi struggled with the words as they and the situation tasted foreign to him. Maybe, just maybe the little spice he had managed to swallow burnt the flowers and left him cold. “... good to talk about it.“

There was shuffling behind him, and Misaki passed by his side before flopping onto the bed unceremoniously with eyes closed. His teeth were sinking into his lower lip with such intensity that Fushimi wondered how it didn’t break the skin and cause it to bleed.

“It’s hard.“

Fushimi just sat down to his left slowly, with mindful movements as if he felt that anything too brash might scare Misaki off. The sound of a bathroom door clicking closed in the middle of the night rang in his ears.

“Yeah.“

There was a thick silence between them, and Fushimi figured that, for once, he should be the one to take the lead in an emotionally vulnerable conversation. Awkwardly adjusting himself on the mattress, he inhaled the homely scent of the apartment deeply and sighed.

“It was hard news to swallow down.” The sentence had come out more robotic and awkward than he had intended, but at least it was out there. It made Misaki snort in hollow amusement, and Fushimi didn’t know if he had done the right thing.

“Do you know what he said?“ Misaki’s voice was bitter and his hands fisted on his lap, teeth baring as if growling in the middle of a fight. But his form was so tense and so obviously forced that it made him seem oddly... small.

“No.“

“That it’s all going to be alright.“ His expression twisted as if those words had personally wronged him, his shoulders deflating. He leaned forward, elbows propping his torso on his thighs. “When he told me that, I... I didn’t know what to do.“

Fushimi saw Misaki blink rapidly, attempting to fend away the tears pricking at the back of his eyes, and Misaki sniffed before exhaling loudly. Wait-

“You were there?”

“Yeah, can we- can we start the movie now?” He spoke with forced energy in a poor attempt to deflect the subject and roughly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

Fushimi looked to the floor for a split second before making up his mind. Reaching forward, he laced his fingers with the ones wiping at Misaki’s eyes. He winced as Fushimi expected, but his fingers were lightly wet, definitely not from the washing he had been previously doing. And even if he knew that the contact hurt, Misaki didn’t pull away.

Most comforting Fushimi had ever seen or heard was physical, and he was at a loss over what to do next.

In the end, he squeezed the fingers in his grasp one last time as Misaki stared, befuddled, at him before letting them drop in the space between them. Their eyes met, and there had to be pressure around his windpipe because Fushimi could barely breathe.

“Tell me what happened.“ He had meant for his tone to be assuring, though it came out hesitant. He was unable to spend much time beating himself up over his mistake since the wobbling of Misaki’s Adam’s apple caught his attention.

Misaki looked away from him, with anxious movements to hide the tears he had already seen forming at the corner of his eyes, and sat up straighter. He didn’t last long in that position before he hunched forward as if some key muscles had been removed from his back. He tried to smile through the downward twitching of the corners of his lips, but it effectively twisted his expression into a grimace.

Misaki took a few minutes to collect himself and then recounted what had happened that night. With every word, Misaki hunched more and his muscles tensed by pure instinct in order to make him look strong. It didn’t distract Fushimi from what he was hearing, from the description of having a friend’s blood dripping down his face- Misaki rubbed furiously at his cheek where Fushimi figured the blood had been, but right now it was just wet with tears and he pulled his hand away- and of how it felt for a life to slip between his arms.

“He was kind of cold...“ he sniffed. “Y’know, the cold of, like, being outside too long, but still warm enough that you hold them and say, hey, they are alive and about to catch a cold.“

He laughed bitterly and buried his face in his hands. Fushimi’s body followed the movement to wrap himself around Misaki like a blanket but pulled away before he made contact.

“It was... it’s unsettling.“

Fushimi’s jaw clenched, and he felt a surge of heat. It wasn’t like the usual warmth that accompanied the pleasant motions of flowers and their petals dancing in the wind, but one of lava, and adrenaline, and anger.

“Misaki,“ he managed to breathe out, “I’m here.“ For you.

Misaki kept crying though, eyes pressed into the palms of his hands, but Fushimi saw the small weak smile that spread on his lips. He resisted the urge to bounce his leg to let some of the energy building up in him escape,in an effort to avoid perturbing the other any more than he already was. There was something vile crawling up along his spine, reminiscent of vines but slithering like snakes, and Fushimi only thought about how unfair this all was for Misaki.

He didn’t deserve it. Neither had Totsuka, his mind supplied, but best focus on what was in front of him here and now.

They didn’t watch a movie that night. When Misaki’s crying slowed down enough that he dared look up, Fushimi just herded him to the spot in front of the window so that they could see their night sky.  


* * *

  
The next morning, after they had woken up in awkward positions from sleeping on the floor, Misaki had complained that his side felt sore.

Fushimi nodded in agreement, thinking to himself that it probably wasn’t the only thing that hurt. He clicked his tongue, and Misaki raised an eyebrow at him and his show of annoyance. He seemed to expect Fushimi to start complaining about muscles filled with kinks, but the only worry plaguing his mind was how long it took for the realization that Misaki was human, that Misaki can get hurt and will avoid the pain he can’t handle, to sink in.  


* * *

  
On his way back to the dorms, strides slow and hands buried in his pockets, Fushimi wondered if the death of his close friend had stopped haunting Misaki for even a moment in the past two years. He briefly wondered if anyone in the red clan knew but he tossed that thought out.

Misaki didn’t like to show any vulnerability.

Maybe, Fushimi thought, it was because he found it demeaning and unbecoming of Homra’s Vanguard. Maybe Misaki’s deep-rooted belief in heroes and atlases that can shoulder the burdens of the world still held an iron grip on his heart. Or, maybe, past hurts had left scars that never fully healed. Fushimi himself had given him plenty of those when he left the red clan.  
Maybe for Misaki, he had been like the deep sea. Pitch black and the robber of the senses in the most maddening way only to give a small light, a glimmer of hope in the distance, that would inevitably lead to the gaping maw of a blind predator. While Misaki always was vines and flowers whose roots would follow the veins of his hands and the stimulation of senses, Fushimi was nothing more than dead falling algae dragging him down to the ocean floor.

And there were things, fundamental aspects, of himself that he might not be able to change regardless of how hard or how long he’d try. If he truly had been a deep sea for Misaki, Fushimi mused, he would become one whose darkness would hide the weakness in Misaki’s heart that he didn’t want seen. And in his depths, just like the water far below the surface, he’d keep him from freezing with his currents while he rested on a bed of rocks, algae and minerals. And when times seemed dark, he’d supply him the missing energy like hydrothermal vents when the sun can’t reach him.

He wanted to be entrusted with the shards of Misaki’s heart that he buried away from himself and from others, to be the one to guard them.  
Fushimi had a long way to go before that could happen, he was aware, but keeping the end goal in mind motivated him.

Finally stepping into Scepter 4 grounds, he saw Andy walking with arms filled with reports. Fushimi nodded him a greeting as Andy looked him up and down with a wolfish grin.

“Not answering any texts, coming in late and wearing yesterday’s clothes?“ Andy looked like he wanted to high five him. “Nice!“

Clicking his tongue, Fushimi ignored the comment in favour of heading to his room.  


* * *

  
“My side doesn’t hurt anymore!“

It always surprised Fushimi how loud Misaki’s voice sounded even when he had full control of the phone’s volume.

“...It took a week to recover?“

“Weird, right? It wasn’t anything bad, though,“ Misaki mused out loud. “The position i slept in must’ve been super shitty.“

“You’re really the older one, huh. “

“What’s that supposed to mean?!“

“That you’re an old man.“

At this rate, they would spend all of their break playfully bickering on the phone. Fushimi didn’t particularly mind. He figured Misaki didn’t either.  


* * *

  
“So, Fushimi-san!“ Hidaka leaned on his desk casually while Fushimi tried to decipher a shoddily written report. The late morning sunlight drifted in through the windows, its glare causing Fushimi to raise the luminousity of his screen again. “What will you give Yata for White Day?“

He shot Hidaka a glance before returning to work. It was mistaken for interest.

“I mean, you got chocolates, no?“ Now, he pulled a chair to sit with him, and Fushimi began typing louder to overpower the noisiness. “Do you know what type of sweets he likes? I’ll try to recommend you a place.“

Maybe he’ll give this report to someone else to read.

“Oh! I know! Kamo can help you make some!“

Akiyama was awfully free nowadays, he could do it.

“Ah, but, I guess that still wouldn’t really match up to homemade chocolates.“ After a moment of silence, Hidaka just clapped his hands together as if struck by a genius idea. “Oh, maybe if you feed it to him?“

Fushimi sighed. He was going to start again with the dumb ideas, wasn’t he?  


* * *

  
In the end, he bought some chocolates. The box was plain and rectangular, wrapped in red with a white bow. Misaki’s eyes had widened and sparkled when he gave it to him, and there had been a wide smile as he thanked him when he took it in his hands.

Fushimi had asked Kamo to make a few incredibly spicy truffles and he hid them randomly in the box. Somehow, Misaki had managed to eat one of those first out of all the chocolates. He had choked at the unexpected flavour, laughing as he slapped the table’s surface in a poor attempt to soothe the burn.

“Oh fuck,“ he said through the tears and laughter. “Please tell me there are more of these.“

“So you really like those,“ Fushimi hummed. He had expected him to, but it was still a ... peculiar taste.

“Hell yeah!“  


* * *

  
When the spring equinox came, Misaki invited Fushimi to come watch him practice skateboarding. He probably wanted to show off, and Fushimi found he wanted to be shown off to.  


* * *

  
At the park, they sat on the ground near a flower bed, fingers intertwined. Around them, silence reigned while they bathed in sunlight.

It was comfortable there, Fushimi thought. For once, the heat of the sun didn't bother him nor did the grass that would most certainly stain the fabric of his pants. He squeezed Misaki's hand as he inhaled the scent of the flowers mixed in with the other's sweat- he had been skateboarding, right?

No, there was no board by his feet. Perhaps he had just been teaching, or maybe they were sitting too close- Misaki's shoulder bumped against his when his lungs expanded.

They were definitely sitting too close.

Turning his head to the right, Fushimi found Misaki looking back at him with a small smile painting his features. His tossled auburn hair curled around his ears and his neck like creeping figs, all soft and delicate in harmonious contrast with his strong figure.

The distance between them closed- Fushimi was still sitting upright, so Misaki had to have leaned into him- lips meeting with a muted sound.

Misaki chuckled, the vibrations spreading from where their mouths met, and Fushimi sighed. His eyes closed as Misaki leaned back, still tasting their previous contact on the tip of his tongue.

Misaki laughed again, lips teasingly uncovering his teeth, and Fushimi felt his back curl forward to chase contact. The tip of his nose caressed Misaki's cheek, their lips mere millimeters apart. But he didn't get the honour of crossing that distance.

Misaki had beat him to it.

It lasted a second more than the first before they separated again, Misaki's grin still intact. Before he could think much of it, he was kissed again and again, each kiss dragging longer than the last and growing bolder with each iteration.

Somewhere along the line, Misaki's fingers slipped away from their hold and both his hands went to lie on Fushimi's shoulders.

The pressure underneath that contact grew and he found himself on his back, head amongst the flowers. His vision was partially obscured by the petals and he could make out Misaki's face above them with a smile widening on his lips. He didn't move to straddle him, instead choosing to place a hand by Fushimi's upper arm and propping his upper body with it as he hovered above him.

Had the sun been blinding him before, it certainly would've been eclipsed now.

Misaki was still leaning closer though, and the petals brushed his face as if they had been a lover's caress, as if they had been Fushimi's own fingers, and he wondered why he suddenly waited with bated breath as Misaki swooped down to kiss him.

Again, he closed his eyes to keep some sense of self- or to lose himself in the feeling. Fushimi didn't know which. He only knew it was warm and that Misaki's hands skittered down his sides and took hold of his own only to then sit up.

Fushimi’s eyelids fluttered open just in time to catch Misaki guiding Fushimi's hands from his hips to his shoulders. He couldn't make out much of the other's expression other than serenity.  
One way or another that proved to be too much for him and his hands fisted on the shirt's fabric, pulling Misaki above him again. This time, though, he pushed himself forward to seal their lips with a kiss.

"Saruhiko..."

The deep murmur awoke something in him that had been slumbering for too long, a half felt emotion flickering in the depths of his heart demanding his attention once and for all, and Misaki's hands shook on his shoulders. Maybe his shoulders were the ones shaking, he couldn't tell.

He blinked and suddenly his eyes were too heavy to open. But when he did, it was only after the low sound of laughter and the voice of some man grew in volume, and he found himself on a bed. There was bitterness on his tongue, and groggily he looked around to find Misaki. He sat on the floor near the head of the bed, head thrown back, baring the column of his neck, and features utterly relaxed. As the voice of the announcer of some late night show drew on, Fushimi couldn't help but wonder if Misaki would share his dream that night.

He checked his phone one last time before going back to sleep. The date read April second.  


* * *

  
"Stop sleeping in weird positions, old man.“

“Oh, fuck off, Saru. I told you it just feels slightly sore, dumbass.“  


* * *

  
They started spending a bit less time together as Misaki began to practice in earnest for the upcoming competitions. They would still text each other throughout the day, and call whenever they had breaks. It was odd, and Fushimi had an itch that he knew exactly how to rid himself of. But seeing Misaki wasn’t always a viable option, he found out. He foresaw the disappointment but it didn’t do anything to lighten the wound.

He wanted to have Misaki’s scent drifting in the air and into his lungs, leaving him somehow greedy for deeper breaths as if there wasn’t enough oxygen flowing in his bloodstream. He wanted the quiet companionship of just being in the same room, the intimacy of being together, knowing that they are together, without needing to check on each other’s presence constantly.  
Somewhere along the line, they had started placing that old bizarre blind trust in each other once more.

It wasn’t always there though. There were days in which they needed to feel each other’s weight pressing down the mattress as they lay together, days in which Misaki paid too close attention to the rhythm of his respiration- they were the very same days in which they followed each other’s movements from the corners of their eyes.

But those times started growing farther and farther apart, and Fushimi concluded that it must be good progress.

However, this moment was one of those, and Misaki was too busy training to pick up his phone. Fushimi tapped his fingers on his thigh and decided to instead send him a message asking to meet up later that night.  


* * *

  
“Sure? Wanna go eat somewhere? It’ll have to be after 6, though.“  


* * *

  
They met up a block away from Misaki’s apartment, and leisurely walked to a small restaurant nearby. They were standing close, arms brushing sometimes as they walked, and Fushimi wondered if it still hurt with the fabric in the way.

Misaki never said anything, and for now it was obvious he wouldn’t, so he decided to just assume it did. It was troublesome not knowing, an irritation caused by poison ivies brushing against the inside of the back of his neck, and he was reminded of how much simpler this would all have been if the bond hadn’t been breached. He still couldn’t pull away. Misaki was too quiet, and his smell was overpowered by errant city odours, and Fushimi needed to take any way he could to soothe his nerves with his presence.

Misaki looked a bit sleepy when they sat down to eat at a small table near the middle of the restaurant. He browsed groggily through the menu as Fushimi studied him.

Was he still being haunted by ghosts of the people that used to live and hold an iron grip on certain parts of the Shizume city?

If he were to reach out, how much would it burn?

Was his side still sore again or did he train too much?

“What are you getting?“

Fushimi blinked. He saw Misaki’s lips form the words before they could even reach him, and the delay left him slightly disoriented.

“...Saruhiko?“ Misaki tilted his head to the side with hesitant curiousity. Fushimi just shrugged and finally opened his own menu.  


* * *

  
When Awashima came to force him to take his first break of the day at three in the afternoon, Fushimi decided to take a page out of her book.

He sent Misaki a text reminding him to take one too.  


* * *

  
A week later, Fushimi bought takeout on his way to Misaki’s after a last minute decision to hang out. He arrived without much fuss, door opening for him almost immediately after he made his presence known. He had been greeted at the entrance by Misaki still wearing a white long sleeved shirt with its sleeves unrolled and with a drop or two of sauce on his left side.

That was mildly insulting- Fushimi wasn’t being overworked enough to forget to buy food on his way over. Rolling his eyes, he handed the food to the other man.

“Hope you didn’t cook too much.”

“Oh fuck off, that was only once and you texted me that you were almost here and forgot to get food.“

“You did it at least five times.“

“Wha- you were keeping count?“ Misaki’s voice was low and defeated as he went to set up the table for their supper while Fushimi rid himself of boots and jacket to enter the apartment cozily.

Misaki grumbled a bit more under his breath causing the corner of Fushimi’s lips to slightly curl upwards.

They ate accompanied by their usual conversations about their day or whatever boss level Misaki had attempted on his own and failed- “He’s super tough, ok? You give him a try!“ “Fine.“- until they had brought back the dishes to the sink. Near it was a black marker lying somehow guiltily on the counter surface. Shrugging, Fushimi rolled it away as he passed his plate to Misaki to wash.

The noise lured Misaki’s attention, and he let out the noise of someone recalling important information.

“I think I’m allergic to that marker’s ink. I’ll have to get a new brand.”

Fushimi’s brow raised at that remark only to remember the sloppily written characters of his name on Misaki’s side. “Don’t tell me you rewrite it before the ink can fully fade.“

“Hey, you never know when you’ll see me shirtless next time!“ He flushed at his own words, as if the double entendre were something that would be possible for them as they were. “You sure you’re good with not seeing it there?“

“I’m fine.“

“Honest?“ Misaki’s concerned expression unnerved him. He knew he was overly loyal but didn’t expect it to get to the point where he’d be ok with ink poisoning himself. Besides, the repeat of his own words in this situation echoed like mockery in his ears.

“Just go wash your tomato sauce stained shirt.“

“I haven’t had anything with toma...“ He stretched his shirt to examine the fabric and his words died out when he found the tiny speckles of red. At seeing them, his face fell into defeat. “Oh, come on! Blood is such a pain to take out!“

At that moment, Fushimi thought he knew the exact feeling that forced Misaki to wear warmer clothes than he used to. His blood ran cold, and while he knew that Misaki had been in a gang and fought since he was fifteen, he had had the red aura then. He had been stronger, super human and-

Maybe it had just been a skateboarding accident. It didn’t ease his apprehension much- it was still written all over his face clearly enough for Misaki to see, but it was a small start. The other groaned again and brought his hand up to signal him to stop.

“Don’t worry, I cut and trim my nails so I wouldn’t scratch myself anymore when, y’know, scratching myself.”

Or he had completely misread his features, but the knowledge of how the blood came to stain his shirt relaxed the muscles in Fushimi’s back and shoulder. His bones gained weight, however. It was with self disdain coating his thoughts that he noticed that his name had made Misaki hurt again.

“Stop writing names on your skin like that, idiot.”

He could hear the questions forming as the cogwheels in Misaki’s brain turned, but he took out his phone and decided to ignore them.  


* * *

  
There was something at the back of Misaki’s mind, maybe at the back of his eyes, that stole Fushimi’s focus and kept it to itself. It made him feel as if they were separated by a chasm that formed between their rooted feet.

The depths of the sea were full of them, Fushimi figured. But none of them felt like this, and none that he wanted were like this. The space between them wasn’t a treasure cove where they could lay their emotions in peace to each other.

He wondered if Misaki knew he was pulling away.

In a way, there was water between them. Evaporated, floating in tiny droplets fogging and adding to the divide. In that same way, there was water inside of Fushimi too. Drops condensed on petals and sometimes dripping down to the sole of his feet, his own mass amplified.

The extra weight made it hard to jump the distance between them.  


* * *

  
It was Misaki who took him out for a walk, and it was Misaki who sat him down with a cup of coffee in front of Fushimi. It was black and it warmed the fingers he wrapped around the mug.

“So, what’s up?“

They had already talked about their day. Misaki scratched the back of his neck.

“Did I do something?“

Fushimi looked down at the cup of coffee in front of him. Frowning, he examined the liquid. There were no tendons, no ligaments on his bones, for him to sip. They had been replaced by vines and the stems of plants locking him in place.

“No.“

He saw the way Misaki’s hands went to rest on the table’s surface, he could make out the way Misaki must have leaned back by the way the muscles under his skin rippled. But the reflection on his coffee showed the silhouette of Misaki’s shoulders and the outline of his nape and hair.

“Then talk!“ His voice was louder than he expected it to be. Snapping his head up, Fushimi noticed that he had read wrong, Misaki had leaned forward and his face was a mere foot away from his. “We’ve already talked about this, but I’ll remind you as many times as you need- I’m an idiot who needs shit explained to him.”

“You’re not the only one,” he mumbled and finally took a sip of his coffee. Misaki frowned. So he added as an afterthought, “I need time.”

“I gav- I... alright.”

Fushimi knew he was frustrating, but Misaki just leaned back and gave him a small smile. He figured that a lot of it had been in his head too.

“Just tell me when you’re good to talk.“

He figured that a lot of it was in Misaki’s head too.  


* * *

  
“Well,“ they were sitting in front of the window in Misaki’s apartment. Night hadn’t fallen yet but the rays of the slowly setting sun carved it a path. Like this, Misaki’s hair would fade into the orange of the sunset and his tanned skin appeared to be flowering from the sky. “I could just get it tattooed.“

“Misaki.“ He hoped it sounded stern, but to his ears it reverberated as a plea.

“No, I get it.“ Fushimi wondered how true it was, and began to mentally tally what parts he would need to re-explain. Misaki forged forward. “You don’t want to hurt me and I don’t want you to think that you’re meaningless to me.“

He didn’t stutter nor blush as he spoke, but his eyes burned with determination. It was contagious, because Fushimi’s voice came out confident, for once not a whisper.

“I don’t think names have that much meaning.“ He wanted to reach out and touch, but names in the end did have some meaning. Instead he placed his hand on the window sill. “You’ll show you care in other ways anyway.“

It would have been easier if he could just send his emotions in a bottle to Misaki.

“Damn fucking right.“ Misaki laughed and stood up. Fushimi followed his motions with a small smile on his face, and behind them the deep blue of the sky announced its coming with purple.  


* * *

  
When night did fall that day, Misaki scratched his side again.  


* * *

  
The morning sunlight trickled in through the window, bathing Misaki and his apartment in a soft glow. From his spot under the blankets, Fushimi observed the play of light and shadows on the other’s skin as he moved about and prepared the table for their breakfast. The reports Fushimi had brought from work were in the way and he sluggishly got up to put them away.

“You know, you can come over every night. It’s nice to eat together.“

Misaki brought their food plates to the table while Fushimi organized his reports and prepared his belongings to go to work.

“It’s…“ Standing besides the table, Misaki hesitated. Somehow, Fushimi could feel a slight prick of anticipation, and he didn’t understand why. “I want to… cook for you. More often.“

Misaki flushed at those words and quickly sat in front of him. Swiftly taking hold of his plate, he stuffed his mouth to hide his expression.

“How forward, Misaki.“

”H-hey-!“

The idea felt pleasant, Fushimi mused as he breathed in. The flowers on his ribs followed the expansion of his lungs and dragged across the underside of his skin, marking their slow trail with goosebumps. If he had to give that a name, he joked to himself, it would be giddiness. Taking a bite from his breakfast, he looked up to meet Misaki’s gaze. He shot him a small smile through lightly flushed cheeks before returning his attention to his food, and Fushimi knew for certain that it definitely was “giddiness“ trailing in his flesh.

A comfortable silence that lasted even after they got ready for their respective work fell and only slightly crumbled as they were about to walk out the door. Side by side, Misaki unlocked and pushed open the door for them.  


* * *

  
The little hesitation that had remained between them took a different, and more obvious, form after that day. It was like water drops, but water drops could filter into the cracks of rocks and eventually break them. Just as wind itself shaped trees and mountains alike, how roots would also slither into the fissures of stones and break them apart, piece by piece, and so very slowly- Fushimi was aware of the concept of erosion and he wondered what would become of their relationship. There wasn’t much fear in him towards that prospect, only anxiety and impatience, because there was beauty in nature from its own chaotic self sculpting.

And there was nothing if, at least, parallels between natural erosion and the flowers that were in his core and blooming on his bones.

They weren’t soulmates anymore; perhaps one day they would be again, he had to remind himself. Or perhaps they wouldn’t. There was an odd acceptance forming inside of him in front of either possibility. Misaki had always been deathly loyal even towards those that had done more to prove they didn’t deserve it- Fushimi included himself in that group- and he always spoke of staying by his side.

Realization struck him all at once and embarrassingly late, he thought. Since, in the end, the issue between them was always the same.

It was there in the way Misaki would spend more time with HOMRA, or maybe there in the way Fushimi noticed it, possibly in both, so he chose to work later on the days he knew Misaki would be occupied with the ex-clan.

They were two idiots through and through- two idiots that had yet to give a name to the way they would remain by each other’s side.  


* * *

  
On a bench in the park near Scepter 4, they sat. Fushimi on the left, Misaki on the right.

“I mean, you want to?“

“I thought I made it obvious.“

It was easier to speak honestly, about feelings and about what they are, when they weren’t looking directly at each other.

“But you don’t want to touch me.“

“Never thought you’d be a masochist.” He ignored the other’s stammering. “We’ll make it up to each other in other ways- how oddly pessimistic of you, Misaki.“

“Urgh, shut up,“ Misaki leaned his head back and looked up to the sky. “You sure you’d be cool with being in a relationship like this?”

Fushimi stole a glance at his companion. Even if talking about his feelings came easier now, there were still things he couldn’t word, didn’t know how to word. It was obvious that their previous link would have been heaven sent in this situation. Averting his eyes to look forward, he was sure his voice would somehow brave oceans and still carry itself to Misaki’s sharp ears.

“Yeah.”  


* * *

  
It was fall again, and for someone personifying Summer so well as Misaki, he still matched the changing weather too well. When he played with the leaves with his boss’s kids in the park, his livelihood was an odd juxtaposition to the dying season.

It was appealing, Fushimi thought as he stared from his spot leaning against a tree. Receiving a face full of leaves from his boyfriend didn’t change his image of him- much, and only momentarily, really.  


* * *

  
When they got back to Misaki’s place, he was quick to drag Fushimi deeper in. In his excitement as he pushed the other onto the bed, he let out that he had something that he needed Fushimi to see.

The skin was rubbed raw by fabric, faint lines emerging behind scars from the oblivion they’d once disappeared to. Misaki said he had always been on his mind, in his heart, so Fushimi wanted to imagine that his name was slowly resurfacing from its grave in Misaki’s ribs. That way, if it took long, he could say it was because the characters, powered by the air influx in his lung, were traveling through bone, flesh and veins.

It was homecoming, in a way, and Fushimi felt a bit bad for thinking of it that way.

“Does it hurt right now?“

Misaki shrugged, his attention focused on the patch of marred skin as he passed a finger slowly on it. His gaze didn’t budge from the spot.

“No.“

Fushimi wanted to touch too. He wondered if it would be too intimate, and if it would burn even the slightest bit. He folded his hands on his lap instead and watched.

After a couple of seconds, Misaki looked up to him and took his hand. He didn’t give him any time to protest before pushing his hand against his third rib. Quietly, he pressed his own hand against the same spot on Fushimi’s body. Eyes boring into his, Misaki leaned forward and brushed his nose gently against Fushimi’s.

It left a bitter taste in his mouth how he couldn’t pull away.

Thankfully, he stopped there, and somehow everything around them fell still too. Fushimi’s own breathing, his hand on Misaki’s skin, halted until Misaki swiped his thumb on his rib, and it all started too quickly. The rushing of blood in his ears resembled the rustle of leaves as a million flowers bloomed on all contact points between their skin. They spread under his flesh, roots intertwining with his bones until they blossomed in his mouth and around his tongue.

He quickly crossed some of the distance between them so that their lips were mere millimeters away and his hand flattened against Misaki’s ribs. He didn’t have the courage to bring them into contact, but he felt this was more than enough.

“Does it burn?“ Fushimi’s voice was a soft whisper.

“Yeah. A bit. Less than before.“

Fushimi nuzzled against Misaki’s cheek for a second before disentangling their bodies to lie down besides him instead. Misaki chuckled, eyelashes veiling his eyes and a wide gentle smile gracing his lips.

“Someday it won’t hurt anymore.“

It was Fushimi’s turn to smile. It was light and accompanied by a content sigh.

“Someday.“  


* * *

  
Fushimi remembered one day, many years ago before kings and clans and dreams of grandeur. They were fourteen, and the classroom was empty enough to be safe for him and one other person. Fushimi would have prefered to change by himself for gym, but Misaki, as usual, had decided to stay back and wait for him even if he had already finished changing, yammering on about a professor being unjust and giving him detention for no reason.

Fushimi doubted that there had been no justification at all, but he figured it was probably a flimsy one. He took off his uniform shirt and went to reach for his gym shirt as Misaki noted and complained about his skinniness. He even jabbed at his rib lightly before something stole his attention.

“Holy shit.”

Misaki’s eyes were wide and admiring, the grin on his face speaking volumes of his happiness, and Fushimi didn’t know if he wanted to look away out of awkwardness or just out of sheer will to ignore what Misaki was going to say. But there was no escaping it- the echo of the emotions flowing through Misaki’s face reverberated in him too.

He didn’t expect for Misaki to lift up his shirt, and point to the same location where his own soulmate’s name laid on his skin. In simple thin lines matching the name on Fushimi's side, his own mocking name stared back.

Misaki didn’t seem to notice as his excitement took hold of him.

“Man- I’m so lucky!“

It did explain a lot, like why Misaki’s feelings had always been so infectious.

“I can’t believe my soulmate is a guy as cool as you-” He seemed ready to take him in a bearhug and barely capable of standing still. “Take good care of me!”

It was hard to know where the line between Misaki’s and his own feelings laid in that moment. He didn’t want to believe that he had been happy at the confirmation. He didn’t really understand how someone would be so happy with having someone like him.

“... Right. Likewise, I guess.”

Misaki’s joyous laughter was cut off by the sound of the bell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took over a year for Yata to lose the mark by his side. It took less than an evening to tell Saruhiko how it went.

After the first jab on Yata’s ribs, Saruhiko left the alley. He didn’t look back when Yata yelled out his name, or when he sobbed it out, and even when he whispered a plea to come back.

It was just a small impasse- they belonged together just as much as Yata belonged in HOMRA, and by extension, Fushimi belonged in it too. The pain at his side dulled out to a faint throb in the back of his mind.

It only took a couple of days for him to be able to convince himself that the ache came from overexerting his body and it took even longer for him to be able to forget it. But at the end of the night, Yata was always alone and he knew that no matter how much he called out, he would still be.

He didn’t know how many times he had tried to call Sauhiko the day he left, but it was enough for him to know that Saruhiko would stop answering for Yata.

A month later, his side itched a bit, and without thinking he scratched it with jagged nails. He had other things in his mind to notice the first cut.

But he saw it the next day, curses falling out of his mouth as soon as he removed his shirt and noticed the sting.

Yata rushed to the bathroom to clean it up and to take care of it, paying more attention than he would have had the scratch been anywhere else. But it cut the name of his soulmate, the name of the person that would have to - want to - come back. Yata had to make sure everything was fine and in place for him.

Nobody liked to see their name screwed up anyway.

* * *

  
A year passed. Some days, all the little things would remind him of Saruhiko, and the soda flavour they shared began to taste like gasoline.  
  
Yata tried to rub the itch away through the fabric of his shirt.  
  
It only left the skin red and raw- and who would like to see their name in that state anyway?  
  


* * *

  
The day of his birthday came and went. It was only on the day after that he noticed that it had been the second consecutive birthday in which he didn’t see or hear anything from Saruhiko.  
  
There was stinging in his eyes, accompanied by stinging on his side. Yata hadn’t noticed his hand crawl under his shirt and scratch, but there was a tiny speck of blood on the point of his middle finger’s nail.

Suddenly, it felt like he was deflating, and from the small cut on his side, the sea poured out.

Saruhiko’s name was faint on his side, and Yata knew that his own name had completely disappeared from Saruhiko’s side.  
  


* * *

  
It had to be dangerous to have matching soulmark names on the third left rib.  
  
Saruhiko once told him that that was the rib that led to the heart. At first Yata had cherished that information, because it was only natural that soulmates kept each other in their hearts. Now, it just added salt to the wound.  
  
Yata snorted; sea water is salty, after all. The itch got worse, and Yata didn’t stop himself from scrubbing at it with his shirt or nails- whichever was easier at the time.  
  
The name was leaving, evaporating out of his skin like sweat. Strangely enough, there was a creeping cold in the back of his spine, slow but unstoppable, making its way through his limbs. It felt odd and unnatural, and Yata was thankful for the red aura keeping it forever at bay.

And, half a year later, the name was almost unreadable on his flesh.  
  


* * *

  
It was a contradiction. Saruhiko’s name left that all too meaningful placement yet still plagued his heart. Maybe he could forget it if he stopped using his name.  
  
His side itched a bit less now though. Maybe because there was only so much sea left to flow out of his wounds.  
  


* * *

  
Whenever they would meet, that traitor would insult him and taunt him. He would spit on everything that gave Yata strength, on the only family that welcomed him as he was and stayed.

The words would momentarily turn his blood into lava, but it would always cool down to become the Antarctic Sea. And Yata had been wrong, the sea was a goliath when compared to his own small body.  
  
So he tried not to think about it- he tried not to think about many things.  
  
It was always easier to do when his body was in motion, but he doesn’t have unlimited energy.  
  


* * *

  
In the shitty apartment he moved into after that traitor left, there was a window facing a narrow alleyway. It was sandwiched between two brick buildings, and in the distance held a third one whose lights were always randomly on at night.  
  
It looked like stars, and he wondered if someday the lights in its windows would turn off and move into the next room like a poor man’s excuse for a shooting star.  
  


* * *

  
Yata should have foreseen HOMRA leaving him too. After all, they were a clan of flames and he was a body full of bleeding water. The liquid poured out of his pores now, and filled every room he was in.  
  
Sitting on a couch and watching old films, Yata figured that the only thing no one could pry away from him were his memories. But they were faulty, he remembered that traitor once telling him of people’s biased recollections.  
  
The reel reached its end and he laid down on the couch for a nap.  
  
He missed the itchiness of losing the traitor’s name. At least it was something other than the drowned out noise of the world.  
  


* * *

  
Anna was a phoenix, rising from the ashes of their old clan, and Yata found admiration and strength in that. Maybe he could finally find peace in the nameless patch of skin.  
  
He was also proven right that Saruhiko would answer his phone as long as Yata wasn’t calling to talk about himself, about them.  
  


* * *

  
Saruhiko’s name tasted like an empty bed as it flew out of Yata’s mouth.  
  
When he called it, it sounded like bittersweet promises of grandeur and left the impression of water dripping down his flesh.  
  
It was foreign, because Saruhiko was foreign.  
  
The realization was welcomed as if greeting a mentor, Yata had always danced around with ignorance as his partner even if there had never been music.  
  
But Yata sat straight now, looking forward and jaw set.  
  
People he had loved, people he had known, they had all been strangers in a way and out of reach. It was annoying, but not unsettling. It was simply a drive to do better and to strive for more since he could see the soaring wings of flame above him.  
  
They weren’t really there though. Yata knew that, but they were a sign of comfort. After all, there was still too much water in him, and water could be a calm and gentle wetnurse or unbound ire that pushed, pulled, dragged and asphyxiated, ire that would stubbornly chip anything away with ceaseless waves.  
  
In a way, it suited Yata.  
  


* * *

  
After JUNGLE stole the slate, Saruhiko was nowhere to be found.  
  
Yata called and called.  
  
He didn’t care about soulmates anymore- he just wanted to see the other safe again.  
  
  


* * *

  
When he rescued Saruhiko from Sukuna and they defeated the green clan member, Yata would love to say that he had gotten over all the previous hurt and that the olive branch he extended came from pure good will alone.  
  
It was a lie, of course.  
  
There were multiple scars on his body to forget, but he missed Saruhiko’s friendship even if that would be all he’d ever get.  
  
And when their auras would be completely gone, and Yata would have to wear heavier clothes, Saruhiko could be there to make snide comments about everything.  
  
And maybe, Yata would be able to help Saruhiko find his new soulmate if he hadn’t met them already.  
  
There was still a sea inside of Yata, but it was warmer now. It was also easier to breathe when the ghosts were in front of him rather than on his chest or in his every breath.  
  


* * *

  
These were all the things Yata told Saruhiko almost two years after the destruction of the slate, and not too long after the smaller man showed the other the faint lines of the returning name, as Yata lay on the bottom bed of Saruhiko’s dorm and Saruhiko sat at the low table on his phone.  
  
“The marks leave and return however they want,“ Yata mused out loud.  
  
“Hm.“  
  
“It’s true- this doesn’t feel at all as it did when it left.” Yata turned to look at Saruhiko. He couldn’t see his face since he was sitting with his back to the bed, but Yata knew he had his complete attention.  
  
“Misaki?“  
  
It was late in the evening, and both of them had had long days. Yet, it didn’t stop Yata from knowing exactly what Saruhiko was going to ask.  
  
“Heh, I’m good, don’t worry.“  
  
The bed wasn’t that much more comfortable than his own; maybe that was purely because he was used to the other mattress, but it didn’t keep him from falling asleep, lulled by the rhythm of Saruhiko’s breathing - by the waves of a sea so great and deep within him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like writing this. It's hard to have my usual prose with Yata when the fic is in his POV. Anyway, this is the last thing I'll be writing for this au- thank you for reading!


End file.
